


Knowing

by juxtapose



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Angst and Humor, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-13
Updated: 2012-12-13
Packaged: 2017-11-21 00:52:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,583
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/591584
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/juxtapose/pseuds/juxtapose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Merlin can’t help but question: Why do I bother hiding? It will only hurt him worse if I wait. It will hurt us both. Why does it have to be like this? Why can’t he see? Sometimes I think he knows . . . and other times . . .</p>
            </blockquote>





	Knowing

**Author's Note:**

> Oh, hey. Guess who's back? I know, I know--most of you probably don't even remember me dabbling into Merlin fandom. I did, though. I never particularly blew fandom away with any of my Merlin writings, but with the show ending very soon, I got a little inspired. Thanks as always to Danielle for reading this over and deeming it worthy for Merliknight eyes. Enjoy?  
> DISCLAIMER: I own nothing. If I did, 4x09 never would've happened and this show would actually consist of plot and character development. I'm not bitter.

Sometimes Merlin wonders.

_There’s something about you, Merlin._ That was one of the first things arrogant, obnoxious Arthur Pendragon had ever said to him, and Merlin had figured right then and there that he’d be caught and beheaded for sorcery before the week let out.

But that didn’t happen. Almost a decade in Arthur’s service later, it still hasn’t.

Gaius always half-jokingly attributes Merlin’s ability to keep his magical talents hidden as an arbitrary stroke of luck—a long one, at that.

And then arrogant, obnoxious Prince Arthur Pendragon had somehow weaseled his way into becoming arrogant-obnoxious-but-slightly-endearing Arthur Pendragon in Merlin’s eyes, which then inevitably led to his transformation into annoying-but-lovable dollophead King Arthur.

(Their first kiss in the woods on a hunting trip sort of helped that transition along.)

But if there’s anything Merlin has learned over eight years in Camelot, it’s that keeping a secret is hard. Especially since the weight of the world-- _his_ world, led by the King who is destined to change it for the better—has planted itself firmly on his shoulders.

And in the end, Merlin has found that the most difficult part of all, is keeping a secret from the one person you care about most.

Some moments, Merlin wonders if it’s all worthwhile. Like when the King of Camelot is staring at him with contented, sleepy eyes under a tangle of white sheets; when Arthur is pulling Merlin down, down into the warmth of his arms and kissing him silly; when it’s just the two of them laying side by side on the training field grass in the middle of the night when no one is watching (except the guards on patrol, which is a risk they’re both willing to take).

And now, as Arthur snakes his arms around Merlin from behind and kisses the side of his head—a rare, intimate gesture on the part of the King, who is a firm believer in secret meetings in the dead of night followed by commands to shine his boots or put away his armor—Merlin can’t help but question: _Why do I bother hiding? It will only hurt him worse if I wait. It will hurt us both. Why does it have to be like this? Why can’t he see? Sometimes I think he knows . . . and other times . . ._

“Something’s troubling you.” Arthur’s voice is gravelly and muffled; it rumbles and ripples against Merlin’s collarbone.

Merlin leans into Arthur’s touch, trying for aloofness. “What makes you say that?”

“I know you.” The simple phrasing contrasts with the twinge in Merlin’s chest as the words are spoken. Bitterness clouds his thoughts, blinds his very vision, takes him over, and soon his reply comes shattering through the air like shards of glass in the wind:

“No, you don’t.”

He feels Arthur’s grip stiffen around him before subsiding altogether, yelps a little as Arthur grabs him by the shoulder and spins him round. “What is that supposed to mean?”

Realizing what he’s just said, Merlin inhales deeply before amending, “N-nothing. I just.” He attempts to crack a smile, and it hurts his mouth. “I bet you don’t know _everything_ about me.”

“Try me.” Arthur crosses his arms—always looking for a challenge.

So Merlin decides he’ll make a game of it, if it will distract Arthur from potentially uncovering something Merlin isn’t so sure would be good of him to know just yet. “What’s my favorite color?”

“Erm. Green?”

Merlin narrows his eyes. “That was a lucky guess, prat.”

“But a correct one, nonetheless.” Arthur smirks cheekily. “Another.”

Merlin shuffles away from the windowsill, absently picking a few dust particles off the armoire. “What’s my favorite meal?”

“That rosemary chicken dish Gaius makes.” At Merlin’s raised eyebrows, Arthur elaborates, “you were complaining once that I was keeping you from dinner when I asked you to polish my chestplate. I do pay attention, you know.”

Merlin brings a hand to his chest in mock surprise. “So all you’ve ever picked up among everything I’ve said to you as long as I’ve known you, is my affinity for chicken? I’m almost offended, but I suppose I’ve got to remember you’re a turniphead--”

The distraction, Merlin thinks, is working. Arthur growls, reaches out and snatches Merlin’s waist, snagging him close. “What’s that you just said?” His tone is serious but his playful smile gives him away.

“I think you heard me. Since you pay such good attention, and all.” Merlin figures if he can fool Arthur into thinking he’s all right, maybe he can fool himself. And the fact that he’s pressed up against Arthur’s chest isn’t so bad . . . 

But then, Arthur dips his head just a little so his nose brushes up against Merlin’s ear. And he whispers: “God, you really are an idiot, aren’t you?

“I know how exactly how many seconds pass between your breaths when you’re fast asleep—and I can count how many go by after each little moan you make when I have you against the farthest wall of this room,” Arthur mutters, making Merlin shudder, “I’ve memorized the ups and downs of your voice when you’ve just woken up, and that precisely _three_ crinkles make their way to the corners of both your eyes when you’re laughing.” He pulls back a little, meeting Merlin’s eyes, but his voice remains barely audible. “I recognize your sadness behind the slight downturn of your lips, and your happiness when you smile enough that I can see all your perfectly crooked little teeth. When I kiss you, I feel everything you’ve never asked of me in words, and I want to fulfill it all.” Merlin lets the sensation of Arthur’s hands sliding up behind his neck, down to the small of his back, take him over—he leans forward, pressing his nose into the nape of Arthur’s neck. “And when it’s just us, here, like this, with no sense of time except for the sun coming up high above these walls, I know you. I know you better than anyone. And it’s different from how I knew you yesterday, and probably from how I’ll understand you tomorrow. But for now, it’s this.”

And in an instant, Merlin crumbles. Arthur’s words, coated in a combination of shy honesty and quiet intimacy, had been enough to break him apart. Now, more than ever, the ache for Arthur to understand every little piece of Merlin is throbbing in the pit of his chest. _He thinks he knows me. He really, truly does. God, please, I want him to know. I don’t want to hide anymore. If I’m to give myself to him, I want to give all of me, and I can’t. I want to, but I can’t . . ._

No, he can’t.

As much as he would like to, he cannot falter now.

“. . . Merlin?” His name is a concerned question on Arthur’s lips. “Good God, you’re not going to get all _emotional_ on me, are you?” Typical Arthur—trying to make jest out of his own heartfelt admissions. “I was only proving a point.”

Merlin estimates he has a fraction of a second to compose himself in the security of Arthur’s shoulder. The tears on the verge of pushing out behind his lids remain still and welled up in a cage of blue, and when he looks up, he’s smiling. “Of course you were, dollophead.”

He doesn’t give Arthur any time to come up with a snide retort; rather, he reaches up to clutch the back of Arthur’s head, threading his fingers into his hair, and crushes their lips together. He imagines his feverish, desperate touches come off to Arthur as mere lust in the heat of the King’s unexpected little admission, but in reality, they mean so much more: _I’m sorry. I’m sorry I’ve lied and I’m sorry I’m lying now. I wish you really did know me the way I know you. But you can’t. Not now._ And a horrid little voice in the back of his head adds, _Maybe not ever._

The moonlight casts shadows on their bodies as they move in tandem, and Merlin hopes that if he can’t convey the truth in words now, he can convey it in the way he runs his hands over Arthur’s bare skin, the way the syllables of his name release themselves in sputtered shudders.

_…And it’s different from how I knew you yesterday, and probably from how I’ll understand you tomorrow…_

The truth. It’s so simple, really, in and of itself.

Saying it—out loud—makes it concrete.

Dawn is creeping over Camelot now. Merlin is sitting up, staring at the ceiling as Arthur sleeps.

“Arthur,” he whispers, “I’m a sorcerer, and I’m in love with you.” A sad little dichotomy.

The words escaping his lips send a jolt down his spine, the rebelliousness of the syllables grating against his conscience. But when he receives no reply sans for Arthur’s even breathing, he closes his eyes and leans against the headboard, lashes dipped in sprinkled tears that never reach their full form because Merlin doesn’t let them.

And when morning comes, and Arthur ritualistically kisses him good morning and asks him to leave before Guinevere arrives (without actually asking in so many words, because Arthur’s very good at beating around the metaphorical bush), Merlin knows only the darkness had heard his confession.

And so it will remain. For now.

Until then, Merlin carries on and mutters truths in the dark, secretly hoping one day his King will perchance be listening.


End file.
